irect and decided use of the will, and how is that decided action to
be taken if the brain is so befogged with the habit of hurry that it
knows no better standard?

One of the girls from a large factory came rushing up to the kind,
motherly head of the boarding house the other day saying:--

"It is abominable that I should be kept waiting so long for my dinner.
I have had my first course and here I have been waiting twenty minutes
for my dessert."

The woman addressed looked up quietly to the clock and saw that it was
ten minutes past twelve.

"What time did you come in?" she said. "At twelve o'clock."

"And you have had your first course?"

"Yes."

"And waited twenty minutes for your dessert?"

"Yes!" (snappishly).

"How can that be when you came in at twelve o'clock, and it is now only
ten minutes past?"

Of course there was nothing to say in answer, but whether the girl took
it to heart and so raised her standard of quiet one little bit, I do
not know.

One can deposit a fearful amount of strain in the brain with only a few
moments' impatience.

I use the word "fearful" advisedly, for when the strain is once
deposited it is not easily removed, especially when every day and every
moment of every day is adding to the strain.

The strain of hurry makes contractions in brain and body with which it
is impossible to work freely and easily or to accomplish as much as
might be done without such contractions.

The strain of hurry befogs the brain so that it is impossible for it to
expand to an unprejudiced point of view.

The strain of hurry so contracts the whole nervous and muscular systems
that the body can take neither the nourishment of food nor of fresh air
as it should.

There are many women who work for a living, and women who do not work
for a living, who feel hurried from morning until they go to bed at
night, and they must, perforce, hurry to sleep and hurry awake.

Often the day seems so full, and one is so pressed for time that it is
impossible to get in all there is to do, and yet a little quiet
thinking will show that the important things can be easily put into two
thirds of the day, and the remaining third is free for rest, or play,
or both.

Then again, there is real delight in quietly fitting one thing in after
another when the day must be full, and the result at the end of the day
is only healthy fatigue from which a good night's rest will refresh us
entirely.

There is one thing